


How far from the Tree does the Apple fall?

by spunlikesugar



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Illya Whump, M/M, Object Insertion, dub-con, illya gets taken advantage of, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunlikesugar/pseuds/spunlikesugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya would do anything for his country.</p><p>[[Written for a kink meme prompt: Oleg/Illya, dubcon/noncon. Illya, always desperate to prove that he's not a traitor like his father but obedient and willing to do whatever it takes, does literally anything his handler tells him. Oleg takes full advantage of that. ]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prove to me your Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a kink meme prompt which you can find at (http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=85120#cmt85120). Prompt is in the summary, but in addition to this, OP indicated, "I'd be more interested in Oleg being in it for the power kink or as some sort of fucked up loyalty test than just the sex..." You got it, my friend.
> 
> //
> 
> Basically...I watched tMfU (unfortunately a little late) and Illya...well, I love Illya. Illya I see as a gentle soul in a berserker's body, and I really like how squishy he is inside. So get ready for a whole bunch of terrible things to happen to him. =(
> 
> There are many prompts on the kink meme that I'm interested in doing, so I now have a fairly substantial list of things I'm considering writing. If there's anything you would like to see, let me know in the comments! And so, without further ado...

They don’t have to trail the target until much later in the day; a night owl, Solo calls him, a party animal. So it’s the middle of the afternoon and Illya’s not long woken up, has barely gotten dressed before someone’s knocking at his door, and his first thought is to get his gun. Just his pistol, nothing high caliber.

He holds in in the hand hidden behind the door as he creaks it open just wide enough to see who it is. Oleg, his handler.

He lets him in.

Oleg wastes no time on pleasantries, striding briskly into the room, overcoat coming off as he does so, laid over the back of a chair he passes on his way in.

It’s a complex dance, Illya thinks, being shared by two spy agencies. Each expects that he is on loan to the other, that whatever he’s doing is for them and the fact that it benefits someone else is just a bonus. Oleg in particular likes to remind him that he belongs to Russia, likes to call him for meetings just to tell him as much. That’s probably what this is.

“You look disheveled,” he says casually, in Russian, and Illya realises he has yet to comb his hair, that his shirt is creased, and he can already feel shame crawling up his body. He wants to make excuses, to tell Oleg that he’s just woken up, but he doesn’t. He just waits for Oleg to continue, “It has been a while since we’ve been able to speak face to face,” he says, and seats himself on the couch. There’s a half-played chess game in front of him. Illya had spent hours sitting in that very spot last night, keeping himself awake late enough that he might reset his sleep schedule.

Oleg reaches out and picks up the Queen and Illya sucks in a deep breath. He’s going to ruin the game, but if there’s one person he shouldn’t lose his temper on, it’s Oleg. He likes to watch Illya’s mind lose its reason, but he surely wouldn’t like to be on the other end of it, and the consequences for Illya himself would be most unpleasant should it ever happen.

Illya hovers, awkwardly, not sure of where to put himself, given that he doesn’t know what Oleg wants. The silence stretches out, too long, until finally, Oleg continues, “I am a little concerned about you, dear Illya.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I am worried that you are losing sight of where your true loyalties lie. I fear that perhaps you are forgetting, surrounded as you are by all of this Western decadence. Your partner too, that Solo, the epitome of everything we stand against. I wonder whether perhaps you are becoming too accustomed to this lifestyle.”

Illya swallows, “No, sir.”

It’s sort-of true. He would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy some things about these capitalistic countries, the way they pandered to those with money – which they always were, funded as they were by several governments – the soft beds and the good food. The nice clothes, the way they hung off Gaby. But he knows, he always knows that this isn’t where he belongs. He doesn’t _need_ these things. They don’t control him the way they do the Americans, the British, the French. He is above that.

Oleg clicks his tongue, “How can I be sure of that, Illya?”

Illya knows now where this meeting is going. This isn’t really the first time they’ve had this conversation. The first time for these specifics, perhaps, but certainly not for these questions to come up. It seems he will never be able to escape this doubt, no matter what he sacrifices.

He stifles the sigh that threatens to come up his throat and begrudgingly gets down onto his knees. At this height, he’s barely shorter than Oleg who is seated upon the sofa, so he dips his head a little to get the required effect, “I am a humble servant of my country,” he says. Maybe if he humiliates himself enough now, the test will end here.

“Yes, thus far you have been a valuable asset, a good soldier. But one always wonders, when someone’s father is a traitor. Well, they say that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Illya’s heart is pounding in his ears, and his hand is shaking. He wraps his palm around his knee and leans forward a little. He’s looking at the carpet, the thick rug beneath Oleg’s shoes. “I am not like my father,” he says.

“Prove it,” says Oleg.

Illya looks at the shoes and asks, “How?”

“Come here,” he says and Illya does, staying on his knees and shifting across the carpet. Oleg parts his legs and Illya settles on the carpet there. He doesn’t really know where to look, so he looks at his own fingers. He can see them rattling from here, despite being wrapped around his knee hard enough that it hurts. Oleg’s hair pushes through his hair, along his temple, and it takes a few seconds for Illya to realise he’s _petting_ him. “What a good boy,” he says, thumb ghosting across his cheekbone from his nose to his sideburns.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon is feeling pretty good. He’d entertained himself with a pretty young woman well enough last night that he’d stayed up well until the sun had peeked over the horizon, and it feels luxurious to just be getting out of bed at two in the afternoon.

Then there’s the fact that he’d managed, at long last, to get a bug and keep it in Illya’s room last night. Or, more accurately, this morning. It had been a challenge, sneaking around the sleeping giant, having picked the lock and padded in in his pyjamas and socks. Illya must have been tired not to wake up, and he looked it, dark smears of purple under his eyes, lips pursed, just a little, in sleep.

It’s a triumph nevertheless, if only for the fact that he knows he’s gotten Illya used to his presence enough that he can sleep through a Napoleonic invasion of his room. What other pranks could he pull, if he’s now able to get around a sleeping Kuryakin?

Having brushed his teeth and hair, emptied his bladder and fetched himself a drink, he decides that perhaps he should turn on said bug, just to see what Illya is up to. He might still be sleeping, but what if he’s snoring, or better yet, talking to someone? The Red Peril can hardly call him a bad spy if he’s managed to bug him, now can he?

It seems to take forever to get the frequency right, but at last, there it is, someone speaking in Russian, followed very clearly by a voice that is Illya’s.

“—apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“I am not like my father,” says Illya, and Napoleon is immediately faced with the dilemma – to turn off the bug or to keep listening? This sounds pretty serious, but on the other hand…what if Illya needed help? Or what if he was about to say something hilarious with which he could blackmail him later?

“Prove it,” says the other voice.

“How?” asks Illya and Napoleon adjusts the receiver a little because Illya’s voice sounds crackly, rough.

“Come here,” says the man, and faint sounds, like something being shifted across carpet. A few seconds of silence and then, “What a good boy.”

Napoleon (who prides himself on remaining cool and collected no matter the situation) realises that his mouth is hanging open and had to force himself to shut it with a click. What the fuck is he listening to? A joke? A mistake? Some kind of sexual roleplay? Who knew that the Red Peril liked the humiliation game? …Or men?

Or maybe his grasp of Russian has slipped somehow and he’s misunderstanding everything they’re saying?

He hopes it’s that last one.

“What a sloppy mess,” says the man, obviously talking about Illya, “Take off your shirt then.”

The rustle of fabric, quiet at first as though buttons are being undone, then louder, as the fabric is slipped back, off Illya’s shoulders. Napoleon can imagine it, the scars on his shoulders and back that he’d seen once before, pale stripes streaking his broad body.

The man who was not Illya continued, “You’ve grown so much since we first brought you in. Who knew then that such a scrawny little brat would turn out like you? Your father wasn’t such a big man. Perhaps that isn’t the tree from which your apple fell,” a little chuckle and then a sound like a slap, “Now, now, don’t get all riled up just because your mother was doing her duty to the homeland.”

Napoleon abruptly realises he’s gripping his drink so hard that his fingertips have gone white. Where the hell has he heard this voice before?

 

 

* * *

 

 

His dark shirt is in a crumpled heap, next to his right knee. Illya has been naked in front of others many times before – during training, showers, missions, interrogation simulations – and he isn’t ashamed of his body, but there’s something about when it’s with Oleg that’s different. It’s the purpose of the nudity, he thinks, because in all of those other situations it was a necessity, but now it’s just…for…well, it’s for Oleg’s appreciation.

And appreciate he does, nudging Illya’s shoulder with a foot so that he leans back, stretches out his long torso for better viewing. If it weren’t for this, this part, where Oleg so admiringly gazes at his naked flesh, it would be more bearable. More utilitarian. This is a test that makes no sense, allowing himself to become a temptation to the senses to prove his loyalty to a life without indulgences.

“Belt too,” he says and Illya unbuckles it without a fuss, slipping it out of its loops and letting it coil atop itself, nestled in his shirt.

“You know, Illya,” says Oleg, reaching forward and getting a hand in his hair again, this time taking it in a tight grip and wrenching him forward and up. His face is close to Illya’s now, and it’s a struggle to keep his eyes down and averted, but he’s supposed to be submitting now, showing his willingness to be used for his country, “You have always been my favourite. There are so many young men with fine bodies, but so few with both that and a face like yours. Seems a shame to let it go to waste. Perhaps we should have Solo give you some lessons before your association with UNCLE is finished? Would you like that?”

“Whatever will serve my country best,” he says. It’s true that he has, on several occasions, been jealous of the ease with which the Cowboy had talked his way into people’s hearts, into women’s skirts, but at the same time, he does not feel that he possesses the same…skills? Desire? He’s a tool for destruction, not for pleasure. He wouldn’t know what to do with the ability to seduce.

Oleg laughs, “We will get you some training, fear not. One should always learn to use their assets to their full capacity,” he lets go of Illya’s hair, his hands go to his own belt, “Perhaps this could be your first lesson.”

 

* * *

 

 

Napoleon’s drink is soaking into his bedcovers and he’s across the room. He’s tearing open his suitcase at the same time as he tries to divest himself of his pyjamas, tripping over himself in his haste to... what? He’s not sure what he’s planning to do. He thinks, perhaps, that he might go down there, to the room, fake an emergency.

The receiver is still on, still broadcasting sounds from downstairs, wet noises that Napoleon is trying not to think too hard about. Sure, Illya hasn’t said anything, nothing like a ‘no,’ but he wouldn’t, would he? This is his handler, after all, that little man who had spoken to him that day that he and Kuryakin had been told they were partners. He hadn’t recognized the voice, not exactly, but there was no way it could be anyone else, talking to Peril that way, and once he’d realised it was obvious.

“So enthused, Illya,” a pause and then a harsh breath, a choking sound, “should I be worried that you’re a homosexual?”

No response from Illya, of course. His mouth is full. But there’s no way he’s enjoying it. Not necessarily because he isn’t a homosexual – Napoleon honestly can’t speak to that, he’s never seen Illya express any interest in anyone other than Gaby – but because Illya would never submit willingly to someone who would speak to him that way.

Napoleon’s shirt is buttoned – he forgoes a tie, and he’s just about out of the room when there’s a knock at the door. Fuck, that isn’t good timing. His hand already on the door handle, he swings it open hastily, coming face to face with Gaby, wearing a pristine pink dress, her hair curled over her shoulder. “Morning,” she says, looking a little surprised that the door opened so quickly, “I thought you might want to go for lunch.”

The receiver is still crackling a little behind him. What should he do? He can’t let her in, can’t let her hear what’s happening in Illya’s room. If he lingers, one of them might say something – might make a noise that gives it all away. He steps immediately into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. “Yes, let’s go get Kuryakin.”

 

* * *

 

 

Oleg is using his hair, pushing him down too far, and Illya isn’t experienced at this. So he chokes and coughs, his eyes watering and chest heaving. Unfortunately, Oleg seems to like that effect and keeps doing it, ramming his cock into the back of Illya’s throat. It sets off his gag reflex each time and it’s everything he can do to avoid vomiting. His head is pounding. All he can think about is reaching up, ripping Oleg’s hand from his hair and snapping every little bone, bending back each finger until it _gives_. He could, too. Oleg would never stand a chance.

There’s a knock at the door and Oleg holds him still, down all the way. He can’t breathe, even through his nose, his airway is totally blocked off by the dick blocking off his throat. He tries to stay calm, pushes his fingers deeper into his thighs. He could snap Oleg’s neck. He could wrench his arm out of its socket, break his nose. Rip off his fucking dick and stuff it into his own mouth.

He doesn’t. He sits there on his knees, unable to breathe, looking at the floor through his eyelashes.

“I know you’re in there, Peril,” says Napoleon, through the door, “Wake up already. We’re going for lunch.”

Illya is choking. He tries to pull back but Oleg’s hand is tight on the back of his head. So he settles down, waits, as his chest heaves uselessly. He can hold his breath for three minutes at least, this shouldn’t be such a problem.

“I’m going to pick the lock,” says Solo, rattling the door. Usually the deadbolt would be in place, but he hadn’t… Illya didn’t replace it after he’d let Oleg in.

Oleg must see this, and so, with an irritated noise, he lets go of Illya’s hair and he backs up, gagging, spit dripping ungracefully down his chin. He gets his hand up over his mouth, wiping it roughly as Oleg aims a kick at his chest, mutters, “Get the door. Get rid of them.”

Illya gets up, takes his shirt with him, wiping it over his face before shrugging it on and buttoning it as fast as he can. His fingers don’t seem to work quite right, fumbling stupidly over the same buttons as though he’s never put on a shirt before.

He yanks open the door just as someone starts pounding on it, coming face to face with both of his partners. They both look surprised even though one is usually expecting a door to open it if one is knocking on it. “I am not coming to lunch,” he says by way of greeting, in English, looming in the gap he creates by opening the door.

“Why not?” asks Gaby, eyes lingering pointedly at his misbuttoned shirt and ruffled hair. It’s likely sticking up at the back, bent and wild from Oleg’s insistent hands. He probably looks like a complete mess. Neither of them is used to seeing Illya like this.

“I am not hungry,” he says.

“Then just come out with us for the conversation,” says Napoleon. He’s not properly dressed either. His hair is still pristine, his shirt buttoned up and waistcoat on, but he’s missing his tie, and somehow that small detail makes it clear that he had been in a hurry when he had left his hotel room. What was the rush? Did Waverly add something to their mission?

How tempting it is, to accept, to just step out of the room. Oleg can wait, can’t he? Illya lets his eyes slide down to the carpet, back up. “No,” he says, “I have things to do.”

Gaby smiles thinly. She seems like she can tell something is wrong but she is nothing if not discreet. She might ask him about it later, and he resolves to come up with a lie to tell her. Napoleon seems less content to let him go back inside, but still, he has nothing he can say when Illya says, “Thank you for invitation. Enjoy your lunch, I will see you tonight for mission.”

“Thanks,” says Gaby, “Come on, Napoleon, the concierge told me about a great place not far from here.” She pulls him away, sparing one last glance for Illya over her shoulder. He closes the door, quietly, and with a deep breath, turns back around. Oleg has not moved.

“Now where were we?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

 

Napoleon thinks about not saying anything – it would be better to pretend he knew nothing, to let Illya have that much privacy at least – but when has he ever been known for making well-reasoned decisions? He’s a man of passion, not a man…who…lets his co-workers get taken advantage of.

So at the next opportunity to be alone with Illya, he throws a bug at him.

The two of them are sitting together in a café that same evening, waiting for their mark to pass them by. Their cover is as business partners, both Russian because no-one would believe that an American and a Russian were working together, and try as he might, Illya still has not come close to mastering an American accent. “What is this?” Illya asks him in his native language.

“A bug.”

“I know what it is, I am asking why you threw this at me.”

“You’ve been getting a little lax sweeping your room.”

Illya frowns, “I gave back all the bugs you put in my room,” and indeed he had, the first night they arrived here, but he had obviously failed to check again this morning. “Ah, thank you,” he says in English as the waitress brings them both coffee, putting down the cream and sugar with a shy smile. She’s disarmed by them, by their combined presence.

She laughs a little and retreats, offering, “If there’s anything else I can get you, please let me know.”

“Thank you,” Illya offers his version of a smile to her and she disappears.

“Not all of them,” says Napoleon, unwilling to admit that he had crept into his room last night. That was something he’d prefer to keep up his sleeve, for later.

“So what,” says Illya, trying to sound indifferent though his right index finger is tapping on the tabletop, “What are you meaning to say?”

“What I mean to say is that I heard you this afternoon.”

Illya stares at him, eyes gone dark. Napoleon would be lying if he said that murderous expression didn’t scare him just a little. He’s seen what Illya can do, “Heard what?”

Napoleon lowers his voice, though he’s still speaking Russian. You never knew who was sitting nearby, “Did you think it a coincidence that Gaby and I showed up when we did?”

“And was she there when you were listening?” growls Illya, through his teeth, and Napoleon lets his eyes dart about. It doesn’t seem as though anyone is interested in their conversation, so he continues.

“No. No one but me.”

“And what do you think it was that you heard over your pathetic low-tech bug?” Illya takes a sip of his coffee, but his hand is shuddering so profusely that he has trouble getting it up to his mouth. Is he about to fly into a psychotic rage?

“So enthused, Illya,” says Napoleon, just in case he hasn’t prodded the bear hard enough, “Should I be worried that you’re a homosexual?”

Illya’s face goes white and he puts his coffee down. For a few long moments, they stare at one another, sitting across from one another at a too-small table out on the patio, “That was none of your business,” he eventually manages to say, sounding like he’s being choked.

“And what happened after we left?”

His mouth stays shut but Illya’s face says it all. They’d gone back to it after Napoleon and Gaby had left.

“Why?” asks Napoleon, “Why would you let him do that to you?”

“I am not a homosexual,” responds Illya with some vigour, as though that’s the issue at hand here, “What you heard was merely an act of duty.”

“That was your _duty?_ ”

A scowl, “Yes, you should understand better than most. It is not so dissimilar than what you are required to do on half of our missions.”

Napoleon opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again to blurt, incredulously, “I seduce our _marks_ , not my handler.”

“I did not seduce him,” says Illya through gritted teeth, and Napoleon is certain that the only thing keeping him at this table is the fact that they’re currently on a mission. “I would never – I cannot--”

He can’t seem to be able to find the words, even in Russian. Napoleon knows it’s true. He can’t imagine Illya ever seducing someone for personal gain, let alone his handler. He would, if it were for a mission, Napoleon thinks, and he would probably be successful. Failure is not an option for Kuryakin. So then, if he were willing to do it for a mark, what then is the difference if he felt he had to do it for his handler? Illya is the perfect spy, really, to do whatever he is told like that. “So then why?” he asks, trying to keep his voice soft, un-accusing.

“Because,” says Illya, “I am…I will do anything for my country. I am not a traitor like my father was.”

Things are becoming clear. Napoleon has to put down his cup now, he’s starting to feel a little shaken, “Your handler made you believe that in order to prove your loyalty, you had to suck his dick?”

He instantly regrets being so vulgar about it as Illya’s mouth thins into a little line. “That’s not all?” he asks, and Illya drops his gaze, looks down at their table. Napoleon can feel heat crawling up his face. He’s somewhere between anger and disgust, outrage that a man he has come to see as a friend has been taken advantage of in such a way. And perhaps this wasn’t the first time? Perhaps this has been going on for _years_.

Illya obviously misreads the disgust in his face, and looks away, over at the road where various fashionable Austrians meander by, mutters, “It is none of your business what I do. This will not affect our working relationship.”

“Illya,” he breathes, “Peril, this isn’t about our _working relationship_. You were – that wasn’t consensual. He…took advantage of you!”

“I am capable of taking care of myself,” says Illya, “I am not a damsel in distress you must save. I am stronger than him, stronger than you. No-one takes advantage of me.”

Napoleon wants to explain, wants him to know that it isn’t about physical strength, that being used in that way doesn’t make him inferior, but Illya’s eyes are tracking something, and Napoleon knows that it’s the mark. They will continue this later. Illya will not be left to feel like all he has to offer is his body – his strength, his size, his beauty. The Red Peril is more than that, and Napoleon will make sure he sees it.

“Let’s go,” is what he says out loud, and the two of them rise from their table, leave the money for their coffees tucked beneath the saucer of Napoleon’s cup, and follow a man to a bar.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon tries and fails to have a meaningful discussion with Illya about his abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More non con, more dub con. A lot of dub con. Just...a lot of consent issues in this one.

Oleg didn't penetrate him himself, thought that it was dirty, said that that was for homosexuals. He didn't seem to have a problem penetrating him with something else, though, finding what he could around the room and demanding that Illya bend over.

He did, face flushed a bright, crushing red, lay his torso onto the sofa cushions, his bare ass hanging over the edge. He naturally lay with his forehead down, against the plush fabric but Oleg didn't like that and smacked him, hard, across the rear. It didn’t really hurt, really only stung his pride, and he turned his head to the side then, to see the bottle Oleg was holding.

"When you seduce a man," he said, rubbing fingers up and down the slim neck of the wine bottle, "he will most likely want to sodomize you. Or," he chuckled, "have you sodomize him. Pervert."

He pressed the bottle up against the skin of Illya's upper thigh. It was cold but he didn't flinch away. "I suppose we should give you some practice just in case he desires the former."

The bottle was empty, thank God, but not especially slick as it nosed up against him. Once it was lined up, Oleg pushed it firmly but it didn't sink in. Illya was too tight. So he spat, saliva landing too high, and smeared the bottle up into it where it splattered at Illya's tailbone before bringing it back down.

This time it slid in when Oleg pushed, slowly at first, but sinking in a couple of inches suddenly as it pressed through the outer ring of muscle. Illya gritted his teeth so as not to make a noise of discomfort. It hurt, a little too big for so little lubrication, but there wasn’t much friction from a glass bottle. It felt weird...cold and smooth. Intensely unnatural. “How does it feel?” asked Oleg, as if he could read his mind, “Does it feel good?”

“No,” said Illya, though he would have said that even if he was enjoying it.

“Perhaps it’s not realistic enough,” Oleg mused, pushing it in harder so that it was in as far as it would go. _That_ hurt, the spit slick had run out on the first few inches and it burned as the friction increased. He yanked it out all the way and waited until Illya had closed up again before shoving it back in, roughly. “Not thick enough for you, is it?”

It certainly felt thick enough, buried as it was in his ass, but no, the girth of a wine bottle hardly compared to that of the average erect penis. “Let me find something else,” Oleg said, not waiting for Illya to respond. He left the wine bottle in while he searched for something, demanding that it stay in him, something Illya only managed for a minute before the weight of it slipped out.

Oleg berated him while he looked for something else he could try to cram in there. Eventually he gave up and just fucked Illya - then told him that it was his fault for making him do something so degrading.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are we going to discuss it?” asks Napoleon a couple of days later. They’re in the suite at the hotel room, Gaby sleeping peacefully, her head in Illya’s lap. A perfect time to ask him, while one of his hands is smoothing idly over the silken pool of her deep brown hair, the other holding a book. It’s not likely that he’ll start ripping things apart, not with Gaby there.

“No,” says Illya shortly. Doesn’t look over from his book.

Napoleon sighs, rolls his eyes, “We kind of have to.”

“No we do not,” says Illya and looks at him this time. It’s funny that Napoleon didn’t have to specify to Illya about what they needed to talk, which probably means that Illya has been expecting this conversation. “Not with Gaby here.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Gaby is spy. You do not know for sure that she is not listening.”

Napoleon does look at Gaby’s face at that. She doesn’t smile, so she’s probably asleep. Anyway, it’s just an excuse from Illya. He’ll always find another. Probably it’ll be Gaby next time too, and the one after that. “Illya, this is important.”

“Why? I do not see how it concerns you.”

“You don’t see how it concerns me,” says Napoleon. Illya raises his eyebrows and shakes his head as if it’s obvious. Napoleon grits his teeth, “How does this not concern me?”

“I do not recall you being in room when this incident happened, and I do not see how my interactions with my handler impact your life in any way,” Illya is doing a very good job keeping his voice low and steady so as not to awaken Gaby, his left hand still ghosting fingertips through Gaby’s hair. The other hand has lowered the book.

“Illya, we’ve been working together two years now,” Illya just looks at him, “Aren’t we friends?”

“Friends know when to stay out of friends’ business.”

“Friends help friends when they’re in trouble.”

“I am not in trouble,” says Illya, “What’s done is done.”

Napoleon frowns, “Illya, you shouldn’t let him do that to you.”

“Why not?”

What an absurd question! Napoleon searches with his hands for an answer, but Illya is just looking at him, cool as a cucumber, as if it really isn’t worth discussing. “Because you didn’t want him to?” he eventually manages, unfortunately phrasing it as a question and thus allowing Illya to respond, “How do you know this?”

And the few seconds that Napoleon’s brain tripped over words let Illya continue, “Perhaps you are worried, that bigger, stronger man might be homosexual?”

That was both a bald-faced lie, as Illya had said himself that he was _not_ interested in men, as well as an intentional affront to Napoleon’s masculinity designed to get him arguing about something totally different. So he says as much, “Firstly, you have told me yourself that you are not, and secondly, even if you were, that wouldn’t matter to me. The reason I know you didn’t want him to is that I know you would never want to submit to someone who speaks to you that way, like you’re his lesser.”

“I _am_ his lesser,” says Illya simply. The book is down all the way now, Illya’s elbow hooked over the arm of the sofa, the paperback barely hanging from between his long fingers. It could drop to the floor at any second now, and Napoleon’s not sure whose security blanket Gaby is. His, or Illya’s.

He doesn’t know what to respond to that. What does one do when their friend has all the self-awareness of a dog on a leash? Napoleon exhales through his teeth, but there’s nothing really he can say. Illya is a stubborn bastard.

 

* * *

 

 

Six months later, they have a mission in Russia. Chances were good that it would happen eventually, there are only so many places in the world that they can go, but that doesn’t mean Napoleon is excited about it.

“What’s wrong?” asks Gaby on the plane, and he wonders how she can tell that anything is. Is he losing his touch?

“Nothing.”

She looks at him, on the verge of rolling her eyes in exasperation and he sighs, “I’m worried about Illya.”

“Me too,” she says, even though she wasn’t aware of what Oleg had been doing to him the last time they had met. Does that mean Illya had said something? Was acting strange? She continued, “I think there are a lot of bad memories here. A lot of bad people.”

Napoleon wants to comment, but Illya chooses to come back from the bathroom at the moment, and sits in his seat across the aisle, and it just isn’t worth risking it.

 

* * *

 

 

Sure enough, almost as soon as they arrive in the hotel, they receive some uninvited guests.

Since they’re sharing a suite with two bedrooms this time, Napoleon is the one to answer the door, and comes face to face with Oleg, (whom he hasn’t seen since that day Illya had choked him on the bathroom floor). He is accompanied by another man he doesn’t recognize, taller, with dark hair.

“Good evening,” says Oleg politely. Napoleon thinks about punching him in the throat, “May we come in?”

Napoleon steps aside. Illya seems to have materialized behind him, standing in the middle of the room, like a tall and quietly anxious statue. “Illya!” greets the dark haired man, in Russian of course, “I had forgotten you were so tall!”

“That is usually the one thing people _do_ remember about me,” says Illya and the man laughs. Napoleon quietly shuts the front door and then leans against it, arms crossed over his chest. There’s no way these two don’t know that he’s a polyglot, so he’s sure they’ll be fully aware that he’s listening.

“What a strong young man,” says the dark-haired man, stepping into Illya’s space and prodding his fingers into Illya’s chest, biceps. The tips of his fingers sink only a couple of millimetres into his flesh, “I think he will do nicely.”

“For what?” blurts Napoleon, earning himself a glare from Illya.

“We need to borrow your comrade,” says Oleg in English, “Just for the evening. Your mission proper doesn’t start until tomorrow, correct?”

“Well, no, but we need time to plan.”

“He’ll only be gone for a couple of hours.”

It bothers Napoleon that they’re talking about Illya like he’s some sort of commodity, a thing that can be traded, when he’s standing right there. Like Oleg, the newcomer uses informal speech with Illya, and that bothers him.

No one has asked _Illya_ what he wants to do, so, trying to keep the edge of pleading from his voice, he says, “Illya?”

“Do not worry,” Illya says, speaking in English as well, “I will return later tonight and we can plan.”

As if he’d ever say no to anything asked of him by Oleg.

 

* * *

 

 

Illya does arrive later that night, but barely, stumbling in at 11:45 and quietly slinking through the shared living room towards his room, as if Napoleon wouldn’t have been waiting up. “Excuse me,” he says, and Illya freezes, “A couple of hours?”

“They required me for…longer than anticipated,” says Illya, and Napoleon gets up off his bed to get a better look at him. His hair is a little mussed, but he’s otherwise completely intact.

Though who’s to say whether they just spared his face for the sake of the mission?

“And what did they want?”

“Not your business,” says Illya, which is as good an answer as any.

Well, there’s no Gaby here right now, so, bracing himself for what could likely go wrong, he boldly says, “So they wanted more sexual favours.”

“That is always first place your mind goes.”

“Well, it wasn’t before, not until I heard what happened last time you saw your handler, but it seems pretty cut and dry that that’s what he wants from you.”

Illya breathes a long-suffering sigh, “If you do not care that I am engaging in extra-marital sexual activity, which you say you do not, and you certainly should not, then you should not be asking questions. I do not ask you about your private activities.”

Napoleon wants to scream, “How do you not understand the difference?! I know you’ve got grey matter in there, think about what could possibly be bothering me about this situation!”

A scowl, as Illya jumps to the wrong conclusion, _yet again_ , “I am not--”

“Homosexual, yeah, I know, you’ve told me. Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t, I really don’t care!”

“Then what,” begins Illya, looking as frustrated as Napoleon feels. He stops, tries again, “why do you insist on making this big deal?” a pause, then his face shifts into a different set, “Are you jealous?”

“Really, Illya, considering you’re a spy, you can be quite obtuse,” complains Napoleon, but Illya is stalking towards him and Napoleon takes two steps back. They’re both in his bedroom now, and Napoleon stops moving. He won’t be intimidated any further, though Illya is…very tall.

“I have been,” says Illya, with a completely different tone of voice. Low, soft. Dangerous. It sends shivers down Napoleon’s spine, “So you are hoping that by hanging this over my head, you can get similar favours?”

“No!”

Illya is close now, and despite his earlier resolve, Napoleon takes another step back, and then another, until his back hits the wall and Illya folds over him, left forearm against the wall beside Napoleon’s head, his face just inches away. He smells like cigarette smoke, a little like alcohol. He’s been at some kind of party. “Illya, stop it,” he says. He doesn’t really want to hit him. That would be opening a can of worms he’s not really prepared to deal with. Napoleon can handle himself in a fight, but against Illya? Well, no one’s that stupid.

His Russian partner says nothing, merely looks down and then back to Napoleon’s face, and he’s struck by how blue Illya’s eyes are, how dark his eyelashes compared to his fair hair. He goes to duck out to the right, but Illya sees his intention and puts a hand against the wall there to stop him. “I don’t think you want me to,” breathes Illya and something in Napoleon’s stomach goes all squirmy.

He doesn’t want it to stop, not really. If this was consensual, if Illya wanted it…

His heart is pounding, and as though he can hear it, Illya smiles, just a little, that secret smile previously reserved only for Gaby but now offered on occasion to Napoleon as well. Then, in one smooth motion, he slides to his knees, tall enough that he can settle back comfortably onto his heels with his face still at the right height.

The _right height for what?_ What is Napoleon doing? He’s taking advantage of his friend, “Illya, no, I don’t want his from you. I mean, I do, but only if you want it too.” Illya doesn’t respond, has his fingers undoing Napoleon’s belt. Weakly, Napoleon manages again, “Why are you doing this?”

“You and Oleg, you are in battle, no?” says Illya, and strips Napoleon’s belt out of its loops, undoing the button of his pants, “Battle over me. You both want my loyalty, both jealous that the other one has it.”

“I’m not jealous, Illya, I’m concer -- _Illya!_ ” he jolts as Illya’s cold hand wraps around something very tender.

“Sorry,” says Illya and huffs what sounds a little like a laugh.

“I’m not jealous, I’m, hmmm,” he has to try to get his brain back on track as the icy hand starts moving. The Russian is not making this easy on him, “People are taking advantage of you. They use your past against you to get you to do things that you wouldn’t do otherwise. That’s called b-blackmail, my friend.”

Illya chuckles humourlessly, “You would know all about that.”

Well, that. That is true. The whole reason he’s in the CIA and U.N.C.L.E is because people are using his past against him. And he regularly uses his skill of seduction in the trade, so the only difference in what he and what Illya are doing are a couple of degrees of separation. But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? At least Sanders and Waverly have him doing things to help his country, and he never has to actually _sleep_ with the mark unless he wants to. Oleg has Illya sucking his dick (and who knows what else) and entertaining at parties.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but suddenly the cold of Illya’s hand is replaced by heat, and Napoleon looks down. Illya’s mouth is so different from his hand that the warmth of his mouth seems amplified and Napoleon can feel himself spring to life as he sees his length disappearing between his partner’s lips. “Oh, shit,” is all he manages in the end.

Illya doesn’t seem to mind when his hips stutter forward a little, when his fingers rake up through blonde hair, not pulling, just resting, and when, eventually, he gasps, “I’m gonna – Illya I’m going to--” he doesn’t move, just swallows it down and then tucks Napoleon back into his pants, wiping his mouth with his forearm and standing.

“Still jealous?” he asks, his voice a little raspy, and Napoleon feels like he’s about to die, his heart is beating so hard. How can another man be this attractive? It’s not fair, really. Especially not fair that said man is a hard-headed idiot.

“I was never jealous in the first place, I told you that.”

Illya shrugs, turns to leave, presumably back to his own bedroom.

“You can’t just go, we need to talk about this!”

“I sucked your cock,” says Illya and Napoleon, rather uncharacteristically, feels heat crawling up his face, “What more to say?”

“Did you want to do it?”

“Sure,” Illya sounds like he’s just been offered a cup of tea, “Why not?”

“Compelling.”

Illya has stopped at the doorway and he crosses his arms across his chest, “I am not sure what you want, Solo.”

“I want to know why!” Napoleon is exasperated. They’re just going around in circles, sure, with a break for a blow job, but this doesn’t seem to be getting any clearer to Illya. “Why are you letting other people humiliate you?”

“Ah, well,” says Illya, “I suppose it’s because I understand humiliation better than most.”

And with that line delivered, he leaves the room. Well, fuck. Napoleon really should learn to watch his mouth when meeting new people.


End file.
